An Unexpected Error Has Occurred
by Pickled Rellish
Summary: Simple John with his simple mind and oh, how he envies him right now. "I can't turn it off, John," and if his voice is verging on the edge of hysterical, then who could blame him when his systems are blaring out a warning about an upcoming potential system meltdown. Overload. Overload. Memory nearly full. Please clear up some space. Compress files? Defrag, defrag.


**Author's Note:** Nope, not a HP fic update, but another Sherlock one wrote in between chapters. I love me some Sherlock.

**Warning:** Run on sentences like a mofo. References to self harm, drugs and addiction. Panic attack! Um.. Sherlock is a little Asperger-y? I guess. So yeah. That's about it.

**Summary:** Simple John with his simple mind and oh, how he envies him right now. "I can't turn it off, John," and if his voice is verging on the edge of hysterical, then who could blame him when his systems are blaring out a warning about an upcoming potential system meltdown._ Overload. Overload. Memory nearly full. Please clear up some space. Compress files? Defrag, defrag._ "Oh isn't he clever with his little deductions, freak seeing what no one else can, put him away until we need him again, never mind the fact that it doesn't turn off, that it doesn't stop, that it's always on. It's not a trick, I'm not a magician who can pull a rabbit from a hat, John and then pack my things, go home, and be normal. Call me up for the next show!"

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. I don't own Sherlock. Obviously.

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**An Unexpected Error Has Occurred **  
By Pickled Rellish 

Everything is too loud and bright, built up from a flicker to a glare, footsteps on stairs pounding like a drum, _thumpthumpthump_. Is it any wonder that his skin feels like it's crawling? If he could rip it off, strip by strip, he would; fingers tugging at curls, squared nails blunt against his scalp.

It wasn't really boredom, but how else could he explain it? How do you explain to someone that the world's too much, too overwhelming, when there's terabyte after terabyte of information drowning him without anything to focus on? It swallows him whole, screaming and shouting: "Look at me. Look at me!" It's all just so-the coffee table feels solid against his fist, wood grain leaving imprints, like fingerprints, evidence. He cuts off his own rambling thoughts.

There's a snap of paper, feels like nails down a chalkboard. How cliché. Dull. "Jesus, Sherlock."

Ah. John. John, who's startled pulse he can almost feel against the back of his throat, worn cotton jumpers and English Breakfast tea (not really tea at all, two sugars and too much milk, what was the point?) and maybe if he could reach into his chest and squeeze, he'd be able to just have silence for one second, was that really too much to ask? The people who lived here before them dealt crack, the paint in the kitchen told him that much, and maybe if he got down onto his belly and sniffed at the carpet hard enough he'd be able to focus. On just one thing. Not everything all at once.

But then there's the stash, hidden from temptation, that would stop this meltdown, his Mind Palace whirling and running on all systems as it tried to catalogue each megabyte of useless information he can't help but to notice. He's got defrag running continuously but it doesn't seem to be doing much good. John's disappointment would be worth the silence, because what was is it to do with him? Those hideous jumpers of his (favourite one, five to six years old, bought, not knitted, considers it his 'lucky jumper' having gone on eight dates wearing it, with different women he feels he needs to note (forgotten traces of different perfumes just about distinguishable), and ended each night with copulation) were his choice and surely if he wanted to shoot up then that was his choice?

If he could just think-fingers wrapping around curls, like a noose around his neck, for all he could breathe right now-then he'd be perfectly fine and he wouldn't be thinking about hiding in his room and playing chef with a spoon and lighter. (_Fine_, what a disgustingly simple word; he notices that his copy of 'The Kinetics of Metal-Gas Interactions at Low Temperatures: Hydriding, Oxidation and Poisoning' has been moved to a perfect right angle from the windowsill, suggesting a Mycroft (who has put on another five pounds, thanks to frosted goods-a slight freckling of it against the edge of the book-and a lack of self-control, hence the out of hours calling, least he be subjected to his brother's gloating) visit and the need to search the flat for bugs yet again, but he can't think of a better word than fine?)

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

Baker Street, usually such a comfort and maybe it's a touch of cabin fever (when had he last left-oh, yes, of course, the return from his last case, nearly a month ago now, with the weeks steadily pressing against his sternum as they inched by) but the walls were too close, a childhood game of deductions jumping from them, the words blurring together and pressing against him, processors going into meltdown. He was on his feet, pacing the length of the floor, chest rising and falling, the rush of his breath deafening, heartbeat threatening to silence John and his inane questions, and even still he could tell that whoever use to live here (besides being crack dealers), at least one was female-a lost hairpin snagged against a rung of carpet a clear indicator, bottle blonde, a snag of brittle hair wrapped around it.

He just needed his brain to turn off-just for a little bit, so maybe he could get a little sleep, or even read the newspaper without seeing an affair between the writer and editor between the lines-or for it to focus on something, something marvelous, like a triple murder, so at least then he gets a choice in what he takes in and what he doesn't, the doors to his Palace checking authorisation rather than just letting everything in which it shouldn't be doing, he'd written a damn code for that last month-a sharp, sudden pain makes everything go white for a few seconds, so much so that he doesn't even hear John's startled exclamation or the sound of him jumping up from his chair, and it's _glorious_.

Only once more does he manage to bring his head back and crack it against the wall before John's hands are on him, cursing as he forcefully drags him away from the wall, pushing him down onto the settee, followed with a rather low, "What the _hell_ was that?" He puts a hand onto his shoulder (slightly calloused from long days spent holding a gun, starting to soften up from using his expensive moisturizer and then completely denying it when questioned) and pushes Sherlock back down onto the seat when he growls and makes to lunge up once more. "Like hell am I letting you up so you can go try and brain yourself again."

His foot is bouncing, an itch under his skin he can't scratch without getting a scalpel, the weight of his dressing gown too heavy on his shoulders and with John this close the words are multiplying on his trousers (Mrs Hudson had ran out of fabric softener, he'd worn them out on a chase three months ago according to the snag at the hem) his shirt (recently ironed by Mrs Hudson, she'd completely messed up the pleat he liked in the arms, but John was too polite to say, once had wine thrown at it and the stain had never completely come out-an upset girlfriend tiring of Sherlock's intrusions on dates with texts, one after the other?) his shoes (new, wearing them in so they don't rub on a chase) the barely there stubble on his cheek (dull razor, Sherlock had used the new ones in a experiment two and a half weeks ago, reminds him of times in Afghanistan, rather likes the feel of a blunt blade against his cheek) and the flick of hair curling around his ear (needs a cut, finally playing with the idea of growing it a little longer each time, relishing in the fact that he no longer has to keep it short, but eventually falling back into an unbreakable habit) and really, it's just a little too much.

He shuts his eyes, squeezes them, hands clenching on his thighs. "I can't _think_." Which isn't right at all. He can't do anything but think and it's maddening, the influx, overriding his systems.

"Oh and you think smearing your brains against the wall is a good alternative, do you?"

Simple John with his simple mind and oh, how he envies him right now. "I can't turn it off, John," and if his voice is verging on the edge of hysterical, then who could blame him when his systems are blaring out a warning about an upcoming potential system meltdown. _Overload. Overload. Memory nearly full. Please clear up some space. Compress files? Defrag, defrag._ "Oh isn't he clever with his little deductions, freak seeing what no one else can, put him away until we need him again, never mind the fact that it doesn't turn off, that it doesn't stop, that it's always on. It's not a trick, I'm not a magician who can pull a rabbit from a hat, John and then pack my things, go home, and be normal. Call me up for the next show!"

A buzz of plastic against wood had him wincing and John leaning over to grab his phone off the table; Sherlock knew what it would say without having to read it. 'Danger night - MH'. The flat really did need to be swept for bugs, a venomous look shot to the mis-angled book and he could feel it in the air as John frowned, could hear the clogs turning in that ridiculously empty head of his and who wanted to be normal anyway? "Well that would explain some things," words carried on a gusty sigh, a hand heavy on his knee and he could feel bone pressed against bone.

"This is insufferable!" He stands up too fast, the world bleeding at the corners, datadatadata leads him to point at the bottom right-hand corner of the mirror. Snarling directly at one of those cameras, one hand scratching at his inner arm. "If you've something to say, Mycroft, then come and say it. Or are you too busy trying to desperately lose those five pounds you've picked up in the last month?" Lip curl over white teeth. "Treadmill gathering dust, brother dear? That didn't last long, did it?"

"Hey. Alright, Sherlock. Calm down."

"I am perfectly calm!" he whirls around now, words against the wallcouchceilingfloorrugfireplace mixing together, and nearly hits John with his outstretched arm as he points to another camera by the bookshelf. "Smarter brother, are you? _Please_. Having the ability to become one of the masses, Mycroft, doesn't make you smarter or any better than me. The fact that you can turn it off proves nothing. You are not my keeper!" _System needs to reboot. Reboot now? No. Postpone._ "Get out of my flat!"

There's a hand on his arm now, fingers tight against his skin, another on his chin, forcing him to turn his head and look down at John. "_Breathe_."

Ridiculous. He is breathing. He's done nothing but breathe, eat, drink, sleep, piss for the better part of three weeks now and wasn't that what got him into this situation to begin with? His chest is too tight, 221B too small, and he feels that if he took a deep breath, he'd simply break through the walls, out onto the street, and he wouldn't be able to cope with that type of sensory input. He opens his mouth to snap something to that effect, chest heaving, when his legs decide to stop working. _An unexpected error has occurred: restarting system._

John's there and he catches him with a, "Right. Okay then. Sitting down now." before easing him back onto the settee. The sweat underneath his armpits, at the back of his neck and knees makes him feel suddenly chilled, but John's hands are warm on his cheeks, crouched in front of him, blues looking up-bags under his eyes, still souffrir wi(g)(n)(a)(Y)th the occasionnel n(O)(p)ightmar(é)e… the words start to flicker from letter to letter, English bleeding into French-mouth slightly downturned. "C'mon, breathe in through your nose, hold it for three, two, one, and out through your mouth, four, five, six. Again, Sherlock. That's it. Copy me."

He finds himself falling into the easy rhythm of breathing, a low hum as electricity starts to slowly light up each room in his Mind Palace as it comes back online sluggishly, copying the almost theatrical way John is breathing, his hand rolling in the air to count the seconds and letting it out on a long, drawn out breath, encouraging smile full of praise. Rinse, wash, repeat. It's almost as good as a 7% solution. No. That's not something he can afford to think about. Blinking, he focuses on John for the first time since he'd found himself sat down and the smile he got was nearly blinding.

"There you are-nono, carry on breathing, in and out-lost you for a while there." There's fingertips pressed against his clammy wrist. He counts silently in time with John. "There's more colour to your cheeks now, at any rate. Feeling better?"

Running diagnostics. Whirl, click. He nods, having to swallow a few times before his tongue finds purchase in his mouth, his voice coming out as a deep rumble. "Much." That is, of course, until everything comes online again and he goes straight into free-fall, an itch climbing to an _achewantneedmust_.

"-hey, none of that. Breathe. I get it's boring, but I'd much rather you not pass out, ta. There, see, easy." There's hands on top of his, unfurling clenched fingers from his thighs, easing them up to his ears and pressing them down over them, all the while just looking at him. "Close your eyes. Go on. Leave your hands there. Breathe through your mouth." There's a pinch of forefinger and thumb over his nose, John's hand resting over his closed eyes to turn the orange hue black.

Senses have been dulled: sight, sound and smell suppressed. There's not even day-old cigarette smoke to taste in the air. There's little puffs of John's breath against his collarbone, but that's easily dismissed when he can't even smell the raspberry jam he knows he'd had for breakfast. Like this, the roar of the world eases to a whisper and it's far easier to slip into his mind to sort through the abundance of information. He doesn't need John's coaching on breathing any longer-chest, expanding; mouth, exhaling: the rush of blood thumping behind his ears fading into background noise-falling into the rhythm as he walks around various rooms and sets them to rights once more. Eyes behind closed lids moving as though in REM.

He has no idea how long he is sat there, sorting, storing, deleting, with John's hand over his eyes and nose, his own pressed against his ears, shrinking down his world, getting ready to expand it. It was long enough to get through the backlog of data. Over three fourths can be deleted without even looking at it; nearly a third of the rest meets the same fate. As the memory and ram began to clear, so did his control. It was long enough to safely lock up the needwantmust, bury it back down at the bottom of a well; much like the one he'd fallen down as a child whilst collecting the moss that had clung to the damp stone, so that he could look at it under a microscope he'd managed to stash in his backpack before being herded out of the house-why had that made an appearance? _**Archive.**_

When he finally opened his eyes-John's hand moving away at the first feel of eyelashes brushing against his palm-neither of them say anything for several seconds and 221B is no longer trying to crawl under his skin, nestle between his bones and take him over. John rocks back onto the balls of his feet, both hands moving away from him to grip the settee cushion either side of Sherlock's thighs. John, predictably, speaks first. "Cup of tea?" Ever the Brit.

"Yes." He clears his throat. "Please."

John-simple, wonderful, marvelous, John-smiles at him, clasps his shoulder as he stands, gives it a little squeeze and leaves to potter about the kitchen, the sound of the kettle being flipped on and boiling water filling the flat. Feeling boneless and exhausted all at once, Sherlock sinks into the cushions, closing his eyes as a hummed, jaunty, tune floated from the kitchen, carrying with it nothing more than a melody.


End file.
